Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Olivia
When Sexting Happens .
. . How to Deal with The Morning After
My night did not go as planned.
Honestly, I can’t even recall how it went after drinking half a bottle of tequila and the cheap-ass boxed rosé Aspen bought the day she helped me move in.
Which, really, I should’ve known was a setup for disaster.
No good night ever begins with boxed wine and ends with tequila.
Unsurprisingly, I wake up to regret.
And a mouth so dry it feels like I’ve been chewing on actual sandpaper.
I crack one eye open and immediately regret everything.
The sun is too bright, my head is too loud, and my body is actively rejecting my life choices.
It’s as if my entire system got together in the middle of the night, held an intervention, and unanimously agreed to punish the fuck out of me for my deeply questionable drinking decisions.
I swallow—big mistake.
It’s like licking cotton balls soaked in regret and bad decisions.
I groan, rolling over in bed, only to uncover two more nightmares:
My phone is dead—which means I have no clue what kind of drunk calls I may or may not have made last night.
I hope I didn’t call Mom telling her I’m a failure and my late father’s inheritance was blown on a dead animal clinic and a rotten house.
I’m wrapped up in a couch blanket, which means I never went to bed.
No wonder my back is killing me.
Maybe once I recover financially, I’ll invest in a couch that screams less ‘college student’ and more ‘welcome to adulthood.’
I groan louder.
What the fuck, Olivia?
I judge past me.
Hard.
So fucking hard.
I judge her so aggressively that if time travel were possible, I would slap last-night Olivia across the face and force-feed her a gallon of water and some chips.
Maybe even have her drain the wine in the kitchen sink before she safely went to bed.
I try to sit up.
Another big mistake.
The room tilts—or perhaps that’s just my soul trying to escape my body.
Either way, I flop back down with a pitiful whimper.
Official diagnosis?
I’m dying.
It’s over for me.
Please bury me in my coziest sweater with a venti iced coffee in my hands.
Preferably a vanilla latte with an extra shot, because if I’m meeting my end like this, I at least want caffeine in the afterlife.
I will make it to the kitchen.
I have to make it to the kitchen.
My head? Pounding.
My stomach?
Negotiating a deal with gravity.
My soul? Actively reconsidering its lease in my body.
I grip the counter, gulping down a glass of water like I’ve been lost in the desert for days.
Once that’s done, I grab my phone from where it’s been abandoned—dead, lifeless, and holding the truth about whatever drunken disaster I caused last night.
I plug it in.
Then I wait .
. .
And wait . . .
because I know Drunk Olivia.
That bitch never stays in her lane.
Drunk Olivia makes poor decisions.
Drunk Olivia does not believe in self-preservation.
Drunk Olivia thinks she’s a flirt but is actually just a menace to herself and others.
The screen finally flickers to life.
I brace myself, praying that I’m wrong and that Drunk Olivia might actually be a responsible adult.
However, I quickly realize she’s, in fact, not responsible.
She remains the same trouble-seeking, trouble-making hurricane.
Slowly—like I’m dismantling a bomb—I read through the missing text from none other than Lucian Crawford.
There are five unread texts.
That’s not bad. Maybe I ignored him.
At least, it’s the lie I tell myself as my soul attempts to leave my body.
No.
No, no, no.
Then I go into denial.
I did not text Lucian last night.
I didn’t allow myself to be baited into another round of flirting with the human embodiment of temptation and disaster.
I do not play games I can’t win.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I open our conversation.
And there it is.
The wreckage.
The verbal equivalent of a calamity.
At first glance, the first few messages don’t seem that bad, nor the last ones.
I mean . . . are they?
Lucian: Liv, are you there?
Lucian: Liv?
Lucian: You can’t leave me like this, hard and needy.
Lucian: You’ll pay for teasing me like this.
My stomach drops.
I teased Lucian.
I played his game and—apparently—left him with blue balls.
Oh my God.
I throw my phone across the room like it burned me.
I am so fucked.
What the hell did I do?
I slam my hands over my face and groan into my palms.
Why?
WHY?
I was tipsy. I was flushed with wine and self-satisfaction because for once, I had him—him—on the ropes.
I won.
But did I really?
I don’t know him well, but Lucian Crawford will never let me live this down.
He’ll remember every single word I typed.
He’ll bring it up strategically when I least expect it.
He’ll smirk in that insufferable way of his.
And worst of all?
He’ll know.
He’ll know I enjoyed every second of it.
I groan again and flop back onto my pillow, arms spread like a crime scene victim.
Go, Livy, I think bitterly.
You finally won a match against Lucian Crawford.
Only to wake up and realize you were playing against yourself the whole time.
I stare at the ceiling.
I could just . . . not reply, change my name and probably move to another country.
Pretend it never happened.
Delete the conversation—fake amnesia.
Burn my house down and relocate to a new city.
The possibilities are endless.
My phone buzzes.
I yelp like I’ve been electrocuted.
I lunge for it and instantly regret everything.
Because it’s him.
Of course it’s him.
Lucian: Good morning, Liv.
Sleep well?
Olivia: .
. . not sure. My sister was here and we got drunk.
I think she might’ve used my phone.
Lucian: Your sister was visiting Hailey last night.
Try again.
I glare at the phone like it just insulted me.
“Seriously, Aspen? The one night I need you and you fail me.”
Lucian: No snark?
No sarcastic reply? Who are you and what have you done with my favorite grumpy veterinarian?
Olivia: I don’t have time for you today.
Lucian: That’s not what you told me last night.
Olivia: Listen, I was very drunk.
Ignore everything I said.
Forever.
Lucian: Oh, sweetheart.
Not a chance in hell.
Olivia: Lucian.
Lucian: Olivia.
Olivia: I’m serious.
Pretend last night NEVER happened.
Lucian: You want me to pretend you didn’t spend an hour teasing me into a full-blown problem?
Olivia: Exactly.
Lucian: You really think I’m going to forget the part where you basically begged me to let you take control?
Olivia: That was not begging.
It was me making very bad choices and drinking very questionable wine .
. . from a box.
Lucian: You were sexting with me, Liv.
Olivia: That wasn’t sexting.
Lucian: Then what would you call it?
Olivia: Engaging in friendly conversation.
Lucian: Babe, we were two seconds away from discussing exactly how you’d ride my face.
Olivia: GOODBYE.
Lucian: Oh, don’t be shy now.
I know you want my cock and I’m willing to give it to you.
I’m willing to Do. A.
Lot.
Olivia: I was drunk.
My judgment was compromised.
Lucian: So you’re telling me Sober Liv doesn’t think about my hands on her body?
My mouth teasing her, taking my time, making her beg for it?
Lucian: Sober Liv doesn’t want me to fuck her mouth, hit her throat with my cock while she’s in charge?
Olivia: Correct.
Lucian: You’re a terrible liar.
Olivia: No, you’re a terrible influence.
Lucian: Mmm. So my influence is turning you into a vixen who wants my cock?
Olivia: That’s not what I said.
Lucian: Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
I know you meant every word.
I throw my phone back onto the bed, dragging my hands over my face again.
He’s too good at this.
And the worst part?
He’s right.
I do think about it—about him.
That is the real problem.
Lucian Crawford is trying to suck me into a game I should not be playing.
Because no matter how much I convince myself that I have control, he will always push me farther than I expect.
He’ll challenge me.
He’ll test me.
He’ll dare me to keep up.
And the worst part?
Sometimes I want to.
That’s what makes this dangerous.
Because Lucian?
He wins.
He keeps winning.
And I hate losing.
This is reckless.
This is messy.
This is a slippery slope straight into bad decisions and morning-after regrets.
Yet, a tiny, reckless part of me likes it.
That thrill that sparks in my chest when he flirts too close.
The way he watches me, like he’s already decided I belong to him.
The pure arrogance in his smirk when he knows he’s getting under my skin.
Which is bad.
Because I don’t do reckless.
I do plans.
I do schedules.
I do think things through before making life-altering choices.
And Lucian Crawford?
He is a walking, talking, absurdly attractive definition of a bad idea. A very bad idea.